by Tara Moore
“It was the autumn of the tenth year since her husband’s death, and she was expecting Graham shortly for his yearly visit to the Hall. She sat looking over papers of importance in her dressing-room; the old servant (who seems to have grown no older) sat sewing in the bedroom below, when a housemaid brought in a letter which the old servant took immediately to her mistress.
“Lady Henrietta opened the letter quickly, for she saw that the handwriting was her son’s. ‘Perhaps he is coming this week,’ she thought with a thrill of delight. ‘Yes, he will come to take me to the Lord-Lieutenant’s ball. He is proud of his mother yet, and I must look my best.’ But she had not read a dozen words before the expression of her face changed. Surprise darkened into contempt and anger—anger deepened into rage and hatred. She uttered a sharp cry of pain. The old servant ran to her in alarm; but her mistress had composed herself, though her cheek was livid.
“ ‘Did your ladyship call me?’
“ ‘Yes. Bring me a light!’
“In this letter Graham announced his return home the following week—with a wife;—a beautiful girl—penniless and without connections of gentility. No words can describe the bitter rage and disappointment of this proud woman. He had a second time thwarted her plans for his welfare, and each time he had outraged her strongest feelings. He had turned merchant, and by his plebeian peddling had bought the land which his ancestors had won at the point of the sword. She had borne that, and had submitted to help him in his schemes. But receive a beggarly, low-born wench for her daughter-in-law?—No! She would never do that. She paced the room with soft, firm steps, like a panther. After a time thought became clearer, and she saw that there was no question of her willingness to receive her daughter-in-law, but of that daughter-in-law’s willingness to allow her to remain in the house. Ah! but it was an awful thing to see the proud woman when she looked that fact fully in the face. She hated her unseen daughter with a keen cold hate—a remorseless hate born of that terrible sin, Pride. But she was not a woman to hate passively. She paced to and fro, turning and returning with savage, stealthy quickness. The day waned, and night began. Her servant came to see if she were wanted, and was sent away with a haughty negative. ‘She is busy with some wicked thought,’ murmured the old woman.
* * * *
“Graham Whinmore’s bride was, as he had said, ‘so good and so lovely,’ that no one ever thought of asking who were her parents. She was also accomplished and elegant in manner. She was in all respects but birth superior to the Duke’s daughter whom Lady Henrietta had selected for her son’s wife. The beautiful Lilian’s father was a music master, and she had given lessons in singing herself. Lady Henrietta learned this and everything else concerning her young daughter-in-law that could be considered disgraceful in her present station. But she put restraint on her contempt, and received her with an outward show of courtesy and stately kindness. Graham believed that for his sake his mother was determined to forget his wife’s low origin, and he became easy about the result of their connection after he had seen his mother caress his wife once or twice. He felt sure that no one could know Lilian and not love her. He was proud and happy to think that two such beautiful women belonged to him.
“The Lord-Lieutenant’s ball was expected to be unusually brilliant that year, and Graham was anxious that his wife should be the queen of the assembly.
“ ‘I should like her to wear the old lace and the jewels, mother,’ said Graham.
“The Lady Henrietta’s eyebrows were contracted for a moment, and she shot forth a furtive glance at Lilian, who sat near, playing with a greyhound.
“If Graham had seen that glance! But her words he believed.
“ ‘Certainly, my son. It is quite proper that your wife should wear such magnificent heirlooms. There is no woman of quality in this county that can match them. I am proud to abdicate my right in her favour.’
“ ‘There, Lilian! Do you hear, you are to eclipse the Duchess herself!’
“I will do so, if you wish it,’ said Lilian. ‘But I do not think that will amuse me so much as dancing.’
* * * *
“Balls, in those times, began at a reasonable hour. Ladies who went to a ball early in November, began to dress by daylight.
“Lilian had been dressed by her maid. Owing to a certain sentimental secret between her and her husband, she wore her wedding-dress of white Indian muslin, instead of a rich brocaded silk petticoat, underneath the grand lace robe. The diamonds glittered gaily round her head and her softly-rounded throat and arms. She went to the old library, where Graham sat awaiting the ladies. She wanted his opinion concerning her appearance. The legend does not tell how he behaved on this occasion, but leaves it to young husbands to imagine.
“ ‘You must go to my mother, and let her see how lovely you look. Walk first, that I may see how you look behind.’ So she took from his hand a spray of roses he had gathered, and preceded him from the room, and up the staircase to his mother’s chamber. She was in the dressing-room above.
“ ‘Go up by yourself,’ said Graham; ‘I will remain on the stairs, and watch you both. I should like to hear what she says, when she does not think I hear; for she never praises you much to me, for fear of increasing my blind adoration, I suppose.’
“Lilian smiled at him, and disappeared up the stairs. It was now becoming dark, and as he approached the stairs, a few minutes afterwards, to hear what was said, his mother’s voice, in a strange, eager tone, called from above,
“ ‘Bring me a light! Bring me a light!’
“Then Graham saw his mother’s old servant run quickly from her seat by the window, and light a tall taper on the toilette. She carried this up to her mistress, and found Graham on the stair on her return. She grasped his arm, and whispered fearfully,
“ ‘Watch her! Watch her!’
“He did watch, and saw—”
“For God’s sake, Mr. Erle,” I interrupted, “don’t tell me what he saw—for I saw the same dreadful sight!”
“I have no doubt you did, since you say so; and because I have seen it myself.”
We were silent for some moments, and then I asked if he knew anything more of these people.
“Yes—the rest is well known to every one who lives within twenty miles. Graham Whinmore vowed not to remain under the same roof with his mother, after he had seen his wife’s blackened corpse. His grief and resentment were quiet and enduring. He would not leave the corpse in the house; but before midnight had it carried to a summer-house in the shrubbery, where he watched beside it, and allowed no one to approach, except the old servant who figures in this story. She brought him food, and carried his commands to the household. From the day of Lilian’s death till the day of her burial in the family vault at Whinmore Church, Graham guarded the summer-house where his wife lay, with his drawn sword as he walked by night round about. It was known that he would not allow the family jewels to be taken from the body, and that they were to be buried with it. Some say that he finally took them from the body himself, and buried them in the shrubbery, lest the undertakers, tempted by the sight of the jewels on the corpse, might desecrate her tomb afterwards for the sake of stealing them. This opinion is supported by the fact that a portion of the shrubbery is haunted by the apparition of Graham Whinmore, in mourning garments, and with a drawn sword in his hand.
“Would you advise me to institute a search for those old jewels?” I asked smiling.
“I would,” said he. “But take no one into your confidence, Tom Whinmore. You may raise a laugh against you, if you are unsuccessful. And if you find them, and take them away—”
“Which I certainly should do,” I interrupted.
“You will raise a popular outcry against you. The superstitious people will believe that you have outraged the ghost of your great-grandfather, who will become mischievous, in consequence.”
I saw the prudence of this remark; and it was agreed between us, that we should do all the digging ourselves, unknown to any o
ne. I then asked how it was that I was descended from this unfortunate gentleman.
Mr. Erle’s story continued thus:—
“After his wife’s funeral, Graham Whinmore did not return to the Hall, but went away to the south, and never came here again, not even to visit his mother on her death-bed, a year after. In a few years he married again, and had sons and daughters. To an unmarried daughter, Jane Whinmore,—always called ‘Leddy Jane’ by our neighbours,—he left the house and lands. He did not care to keep it in the family, and she might leave it to a stranger, or sell it, if she pleased. It was but a small portion of Graham Whinmore’s property, as you must know. She, however—this ‘Leddy Jane’—took a great fancy to the old place. She is said to have lived on terms of familiarity with the ghost of her grandmother, and still more affectionately with her father’s first wife. She heard nothing of the buried jewels, and saw nothing of her own father’s ghost during his lifetime. That part of the story did not come to light until after the death of Graham Whinmore; when the ‘Leddy Jane’ herself was startled one evening in the shrubbery, by meeting the apparition of her father. It is said that she left her property to her youngest nephew’s youngest son, in obedience to his injunctions during that interview.”
“So that though unborn at the time, I may consider myself lord of Whinmore Hall, by the will of my great-grandfather!” I said.
“Precisely so. I think it an indication that the ghostly power is to die out in your time. The last year of the wicked Lady Henrietta’s life was very wretched, as you may suppose. Her besetting and cherished sins brought their own reward—and her crowning crime was avenged without the terror of the law. For it is said that every evening at sunset the apparition of her murdered daughter-in-law came before her, wearing the rich dress which was so dear to the proud woman; and that she was compelled to repeat the cruel act, and to hear her screams and the farewell curses of her adored son. The servants all left the Hall in affright; and no one lived with the wicked Lady except the faithful old servant, Margaret Thirlston, who stayed with her to the last, followed her to the grave, and died soon after.
“Her son and his wife were sought for by Jane Whinmore on her arrival here. She gave them a home and everything they wanted as house-keeper and farm-manager at the Hall. And at the death of Giles Thirlston, his son Ralph became farm-manager in his place. He continued there till ‘t’ Leddy’s’ death, when he settled at the little wayside inn which you have seen, and which he calls ‘Leddy Jane’s Gift.’ ”
* * * *
I have but little more to say. Mr. Erle and I sought long for the hidden treasure. We found it, after reading a letter secreted in the escritoire, addressed to ‘My youngest nephew’s youngest son.’ In that letter directions were given for recovering the hidden jewels of the family. They were buried outside the garden fence, on the open moor, on the very spot where I can swear I saw the figure of a man with a sword—my great-grandfather, Graham Whinmore.
After I married, we came to live in the south; and I took every means to let my little estate of Whinmore. To my regret the Hall has never found a tenant, and it is still without a tenant after these twenty-five years.
Will any reader of Once a Week make me an offer? They shall have it cheap.
J. M. H.
OLD HOOKER’S GHOST
or, CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS AT HUNTINGFIELD HALL
Bentley’s Miscellany, a monthly magazine, became known for serializing long, illustrated novels. By the 1840s its following had dropped off, but it continued to entertain middle-class readers until the title ceased in 1868.4 The following story, originally published in 1865, contains all of the ingredients of a decorous country-house Christmas: church-going, alms-bearing, mumming, as well as a Christmas dinner, a ghost-story circle, and a masquerade. The perfect Christmas setting serves as a frame tale for a tragic story and a family supposedly haunted by an avenging spirit. When the ghost narrative begins to invade the frame tale, the memories of past indiscretions disturb the jollity of the holiday proceedings.
4 John Sutherland, “Bentley’s Miscellany” in The Stanford Companion to Victorian Fiction. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1989. 58-59.
CHAPTER I
AN INTRODUCTION TO HUNTINGFIELD HALL AND ITS INHABITANTS
At that period of the year when rain, wind, and frost have, by their combined powers, stripped the trees of their foliage and plucked even the last rose of autumn from its stem, a large merry party of all ages were collected under the hospitable roof of the warm-hearted, generous Sir Gilbert Ilderton, of Huntingfield Hall, prepared for a Christmas campaign of fun and jollity. Sir Gilbert should be described before his mansion. He stood six feet two in his stockings; his figure was broad, stout, and well built; his countenance oblong, with blue eyes, large and expressive, a longish well-formed nose, and a mouth from which a benignant smile was seldom absent. He might be taken as the beau ideal of an English country gentleman.
His eldest son, Gilbert, a fine handsome young fellow, very like him in appearance and manners, was at college, and soon about to come of age; his next was in the army; and the third, Charley—the delight of his mother, the favourite of the household, and of the whole neighbourhood—was serving his country at sea in the exalted position of a midshipman; but never mind, he intended some day to be an admiral, and to thrash the French or any other enemies of Old England with right good will. There were several other younger boys, and three daughters, known to the country round as the Three Graces, lovely young creatures, fair and gentle, with refined, elegant figures. It would have been difficult to find a more beautiful girl than Mary Ilderton, the eldest—she was a year older than Gilbert—and the others promised to equal her. Then there was Lady Ilderton—a true English matron, kind, and gentle, and thoughtful, dignified and courteous, utterly above the littlenesses of common minds—she was the very antipodes of vulgarity, yet she was full of animation and humour also, and could keep everybody alive and make them happy—at least, it was their own fault if they were not so.
The Hall at Christmas was always full of guests, for Sir Gilbert delighted in seeing happy joyous faces around him, and relations and friends, old and young, of high and of humble degree, as far as purses were concerned, were assembled. The life and spirit of the house was a certain Mr. Giles Markland. Everybody called him Cousin Giles. All the young people, not learned in genealogies, thought that he was their cousin, though they did not know how. He was, however, really a cousin of Sir Gilbert’s, who valued him more for the qualities of honesty, simplicity, and kindness of heart which he possessed, than on account of his relationship. The Miss Ildertons were not looked upon as clever, though there could be no doubt that they were well brought up, and possessed the usual accomplishments of young ladies of the nineteenth century, but among the guests was a niece of Lady Ilderton’s, Miss Jane Otterburn, who was considered a genius, for she wrote poetry, had a vast amount of imagination, acted well, got up charades, invented games and amusements of all sorts, and indeed, in the house, ably seconded Cousin Giles, who was himself the prime mover of all out-of-door sports. She was a small, dark, quick, active, bright-eyed girl, or rather young woman, for she was well out of her teens, and acknowledged by all to be very pretty—indeed, in that respect she might have vied with the Miss Ildertons, and as a partner was a greater favourite than they were. She was an orphan, and had a good fortune, which made her doubly interesting. In the art of weaving an extemporary tale of fact or fiction, Jane Otterburn’s fertile imagination burst forth with a brilliancy which few could equal.
The most complete contrast to her in the house was also a distant cousin of Sir Gilbert’s, Susan Langdon. She was good natured, and fair, and fat, and deliciously dull, as Cousin Giles used to say. She was a general and well-satisfied butt, for she was, he added, too obtuse to observe the shafts aimed at her, or too good natured to mind them when they struck her harder than usual. She had a mother very like her, and a brother Simon possessed of the same characteristics, who
always chuckled and rubbed his hands when he discovered any tricks played on Susan, not perceiving that similar ones were practised on himself. However, the individual members of the party must be made to appear as they are required.
Christmas-day arrived. Everybody went to church over the hard crisp ground, and the sacred edifice was decked with holly and bright red berries, and there were appropriate inscriptions under the organ gallery, and the subject of the sermon inculcated on the congregation was peace and good will towards their fellow-men, and no one would doubt what Sir Gilbert practised as they saw the smiling, pleased countenances of the villagers as he passed among them. Then there was a luncheon and a brisk walk taken by the younger people, Cousin Giles leading, among hedges no longer green and woods denuded of leaves, and by ponds, to judge how soon the ice would bear, and a dozen or more cottages visited, and gifts bestowed on old people unable to move out, he singing joyous carols, and Jane Otterburn discoursing learnedly on the nature of frost and snow, and hibernating animals, and on other topics suggested by the season, and Susan Langdon, laughing she knew not why, except that she felt happy, and Simon trying to play her a trick, but not having the wit to invent one. The Miss Ildertons talked pleasantly, listening to their brother Gilbert’s remarks, or conversed with young Lord Harston and Captain Fotheringsail of the navy, dividing their attentions with praiseworthy impartiality. Then came the dinner—old English fare, but better cooked than formerly—roast beef and turkey, and plum-puddings and mince-pies, all decked with holly, and lighted brandy to warm the pies and puddings, and no lack of generous wine of the best, and a real grace said by the minister, present with his family, and a blessing asked. Little attendance was demanded from the servants when the cloth was removed, for they, too, were enjoying Heaven’s bounteous gifts, bestowed through their kind master’s hand, in their hall below, decked with holly, one end, with the aid of screens and boughs, forming a tasteful stage.
